


The Mirror of Desire

by logospilgrim



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22882633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logospilgrim/pseuds/logospilgrim
Summary: Two years after the war, Neville helps Headmaster Snape look in the mirror and see himself.
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Severus Snape
Comments: 19
Kudos: 89
Collections: HP Kinkfest 2020





	The Mirror of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Deep gratitude to my lovely beta and longtime friend BethBethBeth.

what I would do   
to take away  
this fear of being loved  
allegiance to the pain

please just look me in my face  
tell me everything’s okay

~ Never Be Like You by Flume

  
He knew what would happen, what I’d do.

But then, he always knew everything, didn’t he? Or almost. Still, he was far more clairvoyant than Trelawney ever was.

I glance toward the fireplace. He’s dozing in his armchair, a thick book turned over and resting snugly on his thigh. Even though the school day is done, he’s dressed in his usual long black robes, coat buttoned up to the neck.

Since his encounter with that damned snake two years ago, he’s cold all the time. Even the potions he takes on a daily basis don’t help much in that regard. He’s due for a few of them right now, I think.

It’s a miracle he’s alive.

The fire’s gone out again. He must have gotten distracted while reading, or he was already too worn out to notice and sleep overcame him before it could occur to him to remedy the situation.

I quietly walk to the fireplace, put a few more logs in there, then point my wand at them and whisper, “ _Incendio_.”

Within moments, heat radiates from the burning wood, and I nod in satisfaction. Then there’s a dull thump behind me. I look over my shoulder, see that Severus’s book slipped from his thigh; he’s so exhausted that the sound doesn’t wake him. Even in his slumber, the increasing warmth nearby soothes him and makes him shift in his seat, sink deeper in the cushions.

Yet, tension is lining his stern features. I can only hope it’s not another nightmare.

How could this man have endured all that he did? It defies belief.

Though he was prepared for Nagini’s attack, the potent brew he’d created to protect himself from her venom was barely enough to keep death at bay. He remained in a comatose state for weeks, unresponsive, insensible, powerful magic stimulating his heart and inflating his lungs while he gradually overcame the toxins wrecking havoc on his internal organs and nervous system.

Pain flares within me as I remember how close we came to losing him, but it dulls when I see that he’s not growing agitated in his sleep, at least.

Of course, he’d been determined to stay alive for Harry’s sake. He’d been determined to watch over him to the bitter end.

He made sure Harry retrieved the Sword of Gryffindor from the frozen pond and observed, hidden in the shadows, the Boy Who Lived destroy Salazar’s Locket with Ron Weasley’s help.

That was when Severus realized what might be happening, what Dumbledore had refrained from telling him. He was much too well-versed in the Dark Arts not to figure out that Voldemort must have dabbled in the most gruesome of self-mutilations, splitting his soul in pieces and preserving his cursed existence with Horcruxes.

And it wasn’t the worst.

_Voldemort must do it himself. He must kill Harry, and Harry must let him do it._

Every time I think of this, I can hear the anguish in Severus’s voice, a deep, horrible anguish I doubt anything will ever erase. He speaks the words with an even expression, but I can hear, I can feel what he tries to subdue and mask and bury.

I pick up his book and place it on the side table. He doesn’t stir.

The room is nice and warm now. Good. I approach him, graze his cheek with the back of my fingers, the merest of touches.

Not like ice, but too cold. Much too cold.

I’m going to have to wake him soon so he can take his potions. I could spell them into him, but I won’t. It’s better for him when he’s in control of what he does. I do, however, magically infuse his clothing with warmth so that being roused from sleep is less hard on him.

I always make sure to ease him into wakefulness.

I go over to his potions cabinet—his awesome potions cabinet, a tall, narrow, ancient glass case, numberless bottles and vials of various shapes and sizes crowding its shelves and glinting in the late afternoon light. A sweet and earthen aroma of herbs continually emanates from it despite the door being firmly locked shut. I remember the days when everything about potion making terrified me, including Severus. Especially him.

Our mysterious, fearsome Potions Master. Everyone knew he had secrets, but how wrong we were about so many of them.

There’s a soft click as I open the cabinet door, and I carefully retrieve three slim vials from the middle shelf. _Ignis Lentus_ , _Nervus Curatio_ , _Quies Carnem_. His handwriting is tight and spidery, but so elegant and enigmatic, like he is.

I know much more about him now, and yet… And yet. Even when he opens up to me, he’s inscrutable somehow. Then again, that’s one of the reasons he’s still alive, his unparalleled ability to close himself off, to show only what he wishes others to see.

When he was scowling down at me in class, he knew what I’d become. He had seen it, in a vision of all things. It happened after Voldemort contacted his Death Eaters, on that fateful night when Pettigrew took some of Harry’s blood to restore his master. Severus’s Dark Mark had burned so violently, for hours, that at the height of his agony his surroundings blurred and shifted before him: he saw me, standing there with fire in my eyes, holding the Sword of Gryffindor aloft and severing the monstrous serpent’s head with a sharp blow.

His surprise was so great that Voldemort lost his grip upon him, and the pain slowly diminished.

The smile on his lips when he revealed this to me was more rewarding than I ever could have imagined. Needless to say, it was a hint of a smile. Everything about him is a hint, a trace. An undercurrent.

I want to see that smile again. I want to see it now.

I go back to him, set the vials on the side table next to his book.

He’s still asleep. He sleeps much more than he used to, which is a huge relief to me. He has years of sleepless nights piled up on his shoulders.

An image comes to me, of my melted cauldron during my very first potions class, when I tried to make a healing potion and ended up covered in boils. He’d yelled at me in frustration, then at Harry for not telling me how to do it properly.

He had so much to impart, such astounding knowledge, but teaching was as trying for him as most everything was for me, back then.

Years later, I defied the Carrows.

My gran, who chewed me out more than once when I was a kid, was so proud of me during the dark times when everything went to hell.

I come closer to Severus, my mouth brushing the black locks covering his ear, and murmur, “So were you.”

The Boggart that took his shape, I dressed in her clothing. 

The severe Master and my forceful grandmother were so alike, after all.

Suddenly, his breath quickens and I pull back, noting the faint crease between his eyebrows. He gives a small shake of the head. 

“No.”

Fuck.

“Severus, wake up.” I grasp his shoulder gently. “Come on now. Wake up.”

“I have to—” A strangled gasp escapes him. “Let me… Merlin no, no.”

Bloody shit. I squeeze his shoulders a little. “Severus, it’s just a dream, wake up. Everything’s fine.”

I watch helplessly as his complexion pales and he slams the back of his head against the chair, but by fuck I maintain control and I won’t panic.

“Too late, too late, too late,” he stammers over and over, his voice becoming fainter, and then there’s that gruesome choking sound I’ve heard before, but it’s like a spike pierces me each time I do. I won’t let him go through this again. I’m going to stop it right this second.

I bend down, one hand slipping behind his shoulder, the other cupping the nape of his head, and I press my lips against his.

He struggles for the briefest of moments, then stills, and I can feel his lips part beneath mine. He’s not returning my kiss, he’s between states; not fully awake, not wholly asleep. I don’t move, I leave my mouth against his, giving him time to surface, to leave the murky depths of his own mind well behind. His breathing is shallow, he closes his mouth for an instant and swallows, then he exhales and I can smell the lingering aroma of the rosehip tea he drank before drifting off half an hour ago.

We stay like this a while longer, until at last I tenderly caress his lips with mine again and he responds in kind, his fingertips sliding along the base of my jaw.

When our lips part, he murmurs, “Neville.”

I straighten a bit and look into those obsidian eyes I no longer fear. They’re somewhat hazy, reassured yet troubled and uncertain. He has nightmares, but when he awakens, he can’t remember them. He can’t remember suffering under Nagini’s assault, her fangs tearing at his neck—all he feels is guilt.

“I should have been there.” He shudders.

 _I should have prevented this, I should have done that, I should have been there for you, for Harry_.

I’ve lost count of how often he’s repeated those words, and many more just like them.

Whatever he’s tried to do, it’ll never be enough.

“Severus, it’s time for your potions,” I remind him. “That’s why I woke you.”

He arches one of his slim eyebrows at me.

He’s definitely more awake now.

“Very well.”

His long fingers close around one of the vials on the table. With a smooth, practiced gesture, he uncorks it and pours its contents down his throat. He does this with each of the three vials, then he puts his elbows on the armrests, steeples his fingers, closes his eyes.

“All right?” I ask.

“I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Longbottom.”

Testy, which doesn’t come as a shock. Neither does what comes immediately after.

He sighs, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

A barely perceptible tremor in his voice. A hitching sound, like the subtle pop a vinyl record sometimes makes if it has a scratch. Most wouldn’t hear it. But I’m not most people.

When he intimidated me to the extent I could hardly recall my own sodding name, I became attuned to his every vocal inflection, to the way he moved, to what a particular glare might mean. What’s more, I became skilled at paying attention to all of this discretely. How many people are aware that his robes billow differently depending upon his mood? If Dumbledore gave him crappy socks for Christmas, I could tell just by how his robes trailed on the ground.

I grew rather cunning thanks to him. Stealthy. Who would have thought it possible? Not me, that’s for sure, or at least not in the beginning.

He, on the other hand, isn’t as adept at this sort of subterfuge as he once was. He radiates the same extraordinary power, but something inside him is no longer the same.

The final year of Voldemort’s reign of terror was harder on Severus than anyone else.

He had to kill Dumbledore, the only one who _knew_. He fought to protect as many as he could, while forced to pretend he was doing the exact opposite. He had to withstand Voldemort’s mental onslaughts while exerting an even greater, soul crushing stranglehold over his thoughts ever since he’d discovered the terrifying secret about Voldemort’s Horcruxes. To top all that off, he had to get to Harry in the midst of a war, with most ready to kill him on sight, and convince a young man who despised him that Voldemort’s destruction lay in Harry’s letting himself be killed by the monster Severus had been calling “My Lord.”

It’s a wonder he didn’t drink himself into oblivion.

“Would you like another cup of tea? Cookies might be nice too,” I tell him. “The House Elves left another box of your favorites on your desk this afternoon.”

He sneers, but it’s such a faint sneer it might as well have been a smile.  
  
The Elves had been on an assiduous, almost fanatical mission to uncover his every preference and love. Anything he secretly found irresistible, they discovered with uncanny insight. If it bewildered him, he hid it well.

“Those creatures are entirely too obsessed with me.”

Ah. Not _that_ well.

“Tea and cookies, then?”

A snort. “I suppose it should appease the Elves for another hour, one would hope.”

I go to the other end of the softly illumined room to his desk, where I stack a number of the scrumptious looking confections on a plate, then return to Severus. His teapot instantly fills up with tea—the Elves have a twenty-four hour watch on him, ready to provide him with anything he might need—and I pour each of us a cup of the fragrant, steaming liquid, then sit in the chair opposite his.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him looking at the specially prepared cookies with surreptitious delight, his eyebrows rising a fraction, his mouth a slight upward curve again.

I take a sip of tea, and he does the same. Then he reaches for the buttery, chocolate sprinkled cookies, and a rich baking aroma magically permeates the air.

The Elves are giving it their all, which is saying something.

“Why didn’t you help yourself to one or two, Neville? I can’t eat them all on my own.” He takes a bite, his eyes widen a little, and he shakes his head. “I tell you, those Elves are feeding me enchanted food. Infusing the Headmaster’s meals with magic breaks not a few rules, I’m quite certain of it. Or it should.” 

He takes another bite, followed by a sip of tea, and so on until the cookie is gone.

He laughs, though it sounds like a light cough. The lines in his face aren’t as pronounced, he’s more relaxed… And then the grey clouds that follow him everywhere progressively overshadow him again, and his smile fades away.

He’s not frowning, there’s no scowl on his lips, no coldness in his eyes. He’s fading away along with his smile. It’s as though his seat were vacant.

The House Elves must be banging their heads against their cauldrons.

He only does this in his quarters, when I’m with him. Sometimes I wonder if he realizes I’m here when this happens, or if he does it even more when he’s alone. The thought chills me, and there’s a weight on my chest that sinks in and wraps itself around my heart like a thick, stony crust.

He’s always doing things for others, juggling ten tasks at once. That’s how it’s been ever since I’ve known him. When was the last time he did something only for himself?

Maybe… Maybe tonight’s the night I should do what I’ve been planning to do. What I’ve been dreaming to do. Maybe it’s time. Maybe I should stop stalling and do it.

I shake my head, disgusted at myself.

Bollocks.

That’s the word right there, isn’t it.

 _Strap on a pair, Longbottom_. The words proceed from my own mind, but it’s his voice I hear.

I don’t want to upset him, though. I don’t want to rush him. It’s been less than a year since our involvement began, if you could call it that. A few dinners, a dozen lunches, getting together for drinks every week. Slowly, as the months went by, our weekly kisses turned into every day kisses.

The every day kisses are recent, and glorious, hence what I’m about to do. I’ve longed for him so much.

The first time, it just… happened. We said goodnight, and I moved closer to him. I’m as tall as he is now, and that night I couldn’t stop myself. That night, we were both adults, and the past was completely eclipsed by the vibrant and astounding present.

We’d had more drinks than usual, and I told him about Voldemort putting the Sorting Hat on my head and setting it on fire. It’d been something I wanted to tell him in particular, but in the beginning it got lost in everything else that needed to be done. I wanted to tell him how strong I was, about how much I’d changed, about how differently I saw _him_. When I finally did, he froze and didn’t speak for a while, then he reached over and put his hand on my wrist, staring into my eyes with an intensity that would have made my younger self hide beneath a desk. That night, we talked more than we ever had up to that point, and he told me what it was like, when he had no one during the war. I told him I’d never been happier I’d killed that bloody snake than I was at that precise moment, and he replied he’d known I would do it, he mentioned the vision he had. And he told me how proud he was of me. Extremely proud. I said I was proud of him too.

I bet the House Elves slipped a drop or two of their magic in our drinks, because after we spoke, Severus looked like a man who had someone. The aloofness that blurred him like mist on a window pane started to dissipate, and he could be seen.

So I kissed him.

He was about to enter his quarters, he was turning to grab the door handle, but I took a step forward and he stopped mid-motion. Because of me, he stood there, he didn’t open the door, as though what I was doing was more important than what he was doing.

His robes, falling from his shoulders and making him look so imposing, even taller than he really was, were pooled around his feet, rooting him to the spot, transforming him into a god arising from the abyss.

He watched me, immobile, as I approached, and I felt stronger, more assured than I’d ever felt in my entire life. There was stubble on my face, but not his, and for once he was the one held by my gaze, not the other way around, though his eyes were beautiful and wondrously bottomless.

I placed my hand on his chest, his frock coat cool and silky beneath my palm, and it seemed his breathing was faster. He tilted his head to one side, as if he were contemplating me and trying to decide how to react, trying to solve the riddle I was posing him.

My fingers slid up his coat. I could feel his rib cage, his clavicle, and then his slim shoulder. My hand continued its thrilling ascent, up along the side of his face, finger tips coming to rest against his temple.

He wasn’t doing anything. He stared at me without a word. 

I took another step closer. My face was now only a few inches away from his, and all I could think of was how I wouldn’t mind undoing that cravat of his, but it was too soon. It seemed incredible I was having such thoughts, that I was standing so close to him, and I marvelled at how our roles had become reversed, because he took a step back. 

One step back, that was all.

I didn’t let go of his face, and he blinked a few times, and cleared his throat.

I took another step forward, putting my foot between his. I brought my left hand up, letting it rest on the other side of his head, my fingers entwined in his messy black locks. During the war, his hair got longer, and it was gorgeous. It was lush, wild. My hold on his head tightened slightly.

That was when his hands closed around my wrists. The way he did this didn’t lead me to believe for a second that he meant to pull my hands away, no—he needed to hang on to me. He was trembling.

He took a deep breath, exhaled, his eyes never leaving mine.

I kept space between us. Not much, but just enough; I didn’t want to overwhelm him. How long had it been since he’d allowed anyone to come this close?

More than he’d ever admit, I wagered.

Even longer since anyone kissed him, possibly.

That wasn’t at all fair.

His back was against the door, stabilizing him as I inched closer and inhaled the scent on his clothes, a blend of midnight spices and poisonous flowers, all those buttons far more fascinating than I ever remembered them being.

That high collar, too, displaying a sliver of his stark white shirt and the silk of his cravat at the front, revealing and yet shielding his vulnerability, his throat, his flesh—his pulse—galvanized me.

He observed me silently as I studied him, as I took him in, every detail about him. His proximity was more intoxicating than the Firewhiskey had been, but I was in full possession of my senses, peering into the eyes of the Serpent Prince and beguiling him.

His head fell back a little. Near his jawline, part of the jagged scar Nagini’s bite had ripped into him was half visible, half concealed by his hair and collar.

I wanted to give him pleasure where so much pain had been inflicted… But not yet. That would be too much for him now.

Instead, I touched his lips with mine, once, briefly.

There was tension in his mouth, but when I touched his lips again, longer this time, I sensed a timidity, a tentativeness that yielded to curiosity and nascent captivation. He released my wrists, enveloped my hands with his.

I opened my eyes, saw his drift shut as he opened his mouth a bit more. I deepened the kiss.

He tasted like moss and bitter herbs, clover and pollen, and the more I savored him, the more delectable he became. Daunting, reserved, distant, and now yielding, a man, less mysterious and somehow more so as I infiltrated his impenetrable aura. He took in a shuddering breath, and the power that coursed through me was mixed with so many emotions I couldn’t pull them apart or identify them. My chest felt like it was filled with a mass of small bubbles expanding and bursting in rapid succession, each of them releasing heated tendrils of bliss.

He whispered my name, and at that moment I knew what desire was.

That first kiss took place a few months ago. Little by little, one gesture at a time, one respectful, careful word at a time, I let him acclimatize to having another person entering his fortress, a place where all his shadows were retreating after an endless night.

But perhaps I’ve been waiting too long to part the curtains.

He deserves to glow, to scintillate.

For years, I believed he was bad, and in a way he was, but was he ever selfish? He gave everything up until this was none of him left.

 _I think it’s time for you, Severus, to get yourself back_.

I know it won’t be easy, but he has me and I will be there for him.

“Severus?”

He’s still mired in whatever task he berates himself for not having done when he should have done it, for having yet to do a thousand other things.

I set my teacup back on the saucer with a slight, clinking sound of porcelain and focus my attention entirely upon him; I know his instincts will soon take over and he’ll be aware I’m gazing at him.

There it is, a frown, and he looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and he turns his head in my direction. “Forgive me, I was elsewhere. I—it’s getting late, perhaps you’d prefer to retire for the evening.”

Now.

“Severus, there’s something I’ve been meaning to give you.”

“Indeed? There’s really no need for that, I assure you.” A sigh. “You’ve been quite generous with your time and company already, let alone…” He hesitates. “Your affection.” Averts his eyes. “A heroic young man like you has no business here, with me. You’ve done vastly more than could be expected—”

“I have something for you, and it would make me very happy if you’d accept it.”

He tugs at his robes, pulling them slightly closer together. I’ve seen him do this so many, many times.

“I’ve had this gift for a while. I was waiting for the right moment… I’d rather not wait any longer, if it’s all right with you.”

He straightens in his chair, and yes, the darkness in his eyes is alight with inquisitiveness. 

Success.

Now that I’ve managed to drawn him from his dejected musings, I’m determined to see this through. His curiosity has been stirred. No turning back, Longbottom.

“Very well, Neville. If it pleases you. I owe you as much.”

I’d tell him he doesn’t owe me anything, but I don’t want to derail this before finally setting it in motion.

I take my wand and tap it twice against the wooden tip of the armrest. The Elves in charge of delivering the gift have been on standby, eagerly awaiting the signal.

There’s a shimmering flash from behind our armchairs, then the room is restored to its semi-obscure, firelit radiance.

Severus looks over his shoulder, and his sharp gasp makes my heart clench. I anticipated this reaction, but he won’t be alarmed for long.

He rises from his seat and backs away towards the fireplace; he only just avoids being tripped by his own robes— _that_ , I’d never seen before. 

“What in Slytherin’s name is that cursed thing doing here?”

“Severus, it isn’t what you think.”

He’s clutching his robes now, shielding himself with them, his hands curled tightly around the black material and pressed against his heart, and he takes another step back, his features rigid with shock.

I hasten to the large, upright object, which is covered by a thick velvet cloth and illumined by two massive silver candleholders, one on either side, and swiftly pull the cloth from it.

“See? It’s only a plain mirror. That’s all.”

His gaze darts toward the top of the mirror, but the word engraved there reads “DESIRE.”

He’s seen the Mirror of Erised before, of course, but that was before he was almost killed by the most horrid isolation conceivable, before he was almost torn apart by a giant snake, before he almost died without knowing whether his desperate efforts to save the wizarding world would succeed—and if they did, at what dreadful cost to the one he’d fought to protect all those years…

“It’s just a mirror, Severus.”

At last he looks away from it, fixes his eyes upon me instead.

“Why?” he asks, his voice tinged with pain.

When I first noticed there were no mirrors in his quarters, save for a small, broken mercury glass mirror in the bathroom—you could hardly see yourself in it, I don’t know how he even managed to shave—I was puzzled. He was so meticulous about his clothing, you would have thought he’d have some kind of full length mirror in here somewhere, to make sure everything was as it should be before he swept down the hallways, his robes rippling behind him like a wave.

And no, I didn’t give any credence to the old rumors he might be some kind of vampire.

Rather, it became clear his reticence had everything to do with how he viewed himself in the unforgiving, distorted mirror of his own mind.

I can understand that. I recall how I once saw myself, back when I had trouble remembering anything.

Those days are over for me, and they’ll be over for him as well.

“Severus.” I stand next to the mirror, my eyes locked with his. “Severus, do you trust me?”

His fists tighten. His hands shake.

“I’d like to look at you,” I tell him.

After a minute, he says, “I don’t understand.”

“Just come closer.”

His black eyes flicker back and forth between me and the mirror a few times.

“I… don’t understand.”

“If you come closer, you’ll see what I mean.”

Slowly, his fingers relax and he does as I asked, his steps so quiet one might wonder if he’s moving at all; there’s only the swishing sound of the robes that envelop him like a cloud of black ink.

The light from the dozens of candles nearby shines on his clothes, highlighting the row of buttons at the front of his coat and those on his sleeves. He’s materializing out of the darkness, obscurity in human form. Visible, yet always hidden.

His eyes seek out mine and eschew the mirror. 

That’s fine. We’re only getting started. I want him to take his time.

I smile at him as he nears the mirror. He’s not looking at it, but I know it isn’t the mirror he fears.

“Trust me,” I tell him. I extend my hand, and when he takes it, I coax him closer to the reflective rectangular surface in its ornate black frame. 

“Neville…”

I have him right in front of the mirror, and at first, I serve as a barrier between him and the fearful DESIRE I introduced in his personal space. This calms him. The anxiety in his face smooths over, and I caress his cheek with a light touch.

“There we are. That’s not so bad, is it?”

A half smirk, half smile lifts the corners of his mouth, and he says, “I used to be much more menacing.”

“I think ‘formidable’ is the word you’re looking for, and you are.”

His eyes widen as I adroitly maneuver myself so that I’m right behind him, my body slightly pressed against his so he can feel my presence. I look in the mirror, and I’m a dark outline behind him; the logs in the fireplace aren’t as burning as brightly, and in the candlelight Severus is the focal point, though still enshrouded in his robes and black clothing.

“Formidable,” I whisper to his ear.

He closes his eyes, turning his head to one side, his black waves partially covering his face, the Romanesque sharpness of his nose even more prominent. Even more striking and beautiful.

The temptation to reach across his chest and start undoing those buttons is, oh, it’s formidable.

I ground myself, remind myself of what I’m supposed to be doing, release my breath very slowly.

I do reach over, but only to grasp his chin and gently push it frontward so he’s facing the mirror again.

“See yourself. See what I see.”

Then his eyes open all at once. Because this is Severus Snape who’s standing in front of me.

“That’s it.”

I take my wand and cast a warming spell. Then I say, “I want you…”—he draws in a breath—“…to want yourself.” 

“Neville, I…” Faint patches of color appear along his cheekbones.

“We’ll go one step at a time. You can do this.”

“But, what about you…”

“Don’t worry about me. This isn’t about me.” I put my hands on his shoulders. “It’s about you.”

He continues to gaze at his mirror image, then whispers, “I suppose. Very well.”

Part of my mind is thinking, _I can’t believe this is happening_ , and the other is wholly dedicated to guiding him through what’s now begun in earnest. I kiss him once, on his jaw just below his earlobe, to convey to him how desirable he is.

A low sound issues from his throat.

 _Focus, Longbottom, focus_. Why do I keep hearing my own admonitions in his voice? It’s not especially helpful, Headmaster.

So I get back in control by saying, “Remove your robes.”

One of his eyebrows shoots up in that eminently characteristic way of his, and now I’m the one who’s reassured. 

“Remove your robes.”

He takes a deep breath. He grips the edge of his robes halfway up his chest, and after a pause, he lifts the professorial garb over his shoulders and lets it slip to the floor in a silken heap.

It’s one of the most damned erotic sights I’ve ever seen.

In his perfectly tailored frock coat that molds to his chest, cinches his slim waist, then flares out a little until it comes to his knees, he’s phenomenal and I want him to see this.

“You’re amazing,” I say softly, his hair brushing my face.

He lowers his eyes for a moment, then looks back up in the mirror.

“Good. See how amazing you are.” I pause and add, “I’ll remove your boots for you.”

His throat works as he swallows, and he nods.

I kneel down to accomplish the task, feeling his hand on my left shoulder, then my right, as he leans on me and lifts each leg in turn so I can take off his boots and socks. Once this is done, I’m back in the shadows right behind him, watching over him. Watching him. 

“Everything fine?”

He’s a bit paler, making the color in his cheeks more pronounced, but he nods again.

I move a portion of his hair aside and kiss the nape of his neck, feeling him quiver.

“All right, then. Now, untie your cravat, Severus.”

With those deft, elegant fingers of his, he undoes the knot, then unrolls the strand of fabric from around his neck and lets it drop at his feet amongst the folds of his discarded robes.

How can a plain white collar look so sensuous? It’s creased where his cravat was tied and slightly open at the base of his neck, either because he forgot to button it up in that spot, or because he usually doesn’t.

I cast another warming spell. It’s getting uncomfortably hot for me, but I’m doing it for him.

“Take off your coat.”

One by one, he undoes the black buttons, moving downwards, revealing more of his shirt as he does so, the garment as well adjusted as his coat.

Merlin. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to contain myself when it’s time for the shirt to come off. I discretely cast another spell, and that one will be much more uncomfortable than the one making sure Severus doesn’t get chilled, but I don’t want to distract him with my needs, I want him concentrating on his… No matter how aroused I get, there will be no evidence of it. I’m not close enough to him at any rate, but I won’t take the chance.

He removes one sleeve, then the other, and the coat joins the rest of his clothing on the floor.

His breathing is more ragged, but he continues to look at himself in the mirror.

“Very good, Severus. Excellent.”

The situation is about to intensify.

“Remove your shirt,” I softly tell him.

More buttons are unfastened, and slowly his upper chest then his stomach are revealed, both adorned with a dusting of black hair. He exposes his shoulders next, then his upper arms as the shirt slinks behind his back. At that point, he stops, his lower arms covered by part of his sleeves, the long cuffs resting on his first set of knuckles.

I let him pause for a few moments. There’s a trace of agitation on his face, of wretchedness, and his eyes seek me out in the gloom.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“The Mark.”

“It’s gone, Severus.”

He shakes his head. “It shouldn’t be.”

And there it is, again. The never-ending, merciless self-recrimination.

“It’s gone. In _this_ mirror, you only see what’s truly there.”

“I can still feel it. It’ll always be there. Everyone can still see it, and that’s… as it should be.”

I have to extricate him from this mindset.

“Remove your shirt. Take it off completely.”

It takes a few more moments, but then he pulls each sleeve off by the cuffs, lets the shirt fall from his body. He stands with his sinewy arms against his sides and blows out his breath.

I’ve never seen this much of him, and I suspect it’s been some time since he’s scrutinized himself the way he does now.

He’s slim, quite slim, but not emaciated, fortunately. I remember being taken to his office, during the Carrows’ brutal reign, and as he handed out the least severe punishment he could think of, I noted with no small amount of satisfaction how his cheekbones jutted, how haggard he looked, though he mastered himself as was usual of him: formidable, even when he was obviously skipping meals and on the whole not eating much of anything. Like everyone else, I detested him. I remember him, seated behind his desk, as dignified as a Hippogriff, tormented as he was.

Madam Pomfrey took good care of him in the weeks after Voldemort’s fall. When Harry confronted Voldemort for the last time, his words about Severus and Dumbledore caused a sensation that spread faster than gnomes in the Weasleys’ garden. Within days he disclosed every relevant detail to the Ministry and the Daily Prophet, preserving as much of Severus’s privacy as he could, in addition to quietly paying off a number of punctilious official jackasses to ensure no harm befell Severus because of the actions he had to take to protect wizardkind and the entire world, for that matter.

There are a few scars on Severus’s chest and arms, and alas, there’s the long, jagged one on the side of his neck.

The Mark, however, has vanished.

His chest and arms are toned, not muscular but defined, as is his smooth abdomen, no doubt from all the grinding of herbs and his double agent running back and forth for so many years.

“Put your hands on your chest and stomach.”

This time, he doesn’t listen.

“Severus?”

He’s still observing himself in the mirror, but he doesn’t move.

“I’m right here,” I tell him. “I’m here for you.” 

I’m going to have to teach him to love himself. Or at least be in lust with himself. That’ll be a good start.

“If you put your hands on your chest, I’ll put my hands on top of yours and guide you,” I whisper, my lips so close to his ear he can feel my breath.

He quivers again.

At last, he raises his arms, places one hand beneath the hollow at the base of his throat, and the other he splays across his breastbone. As soon as he’s done this, I reach from behind him, encompassing his arms with mine and resting my hands lightly on top of his.

Thank Merlin I put that spell on myself earlier, because his marvelous as fuck backside is brushing my groin, and oh my god.

“Neville,” he murmurs, and I realize that I suddenly gripped his hands a little hard.

I relax, my fingers skimming his flesh.

 _Come on, get it together man_.

“Ready?” I ask.

A small nod.

“All right.”

I apply a modest amount of pressure on the back of his hands, encouraging him to begin, and then, following my lead, he lets his fingers trail along his ribs, his chest… his stomach, and those pitch black eyes are staring in the mirror, at my hands on his. I still the hand that’s near his pants, his fingertips against the waistband, and guide the other one higher up again, moving it in circles on one side of his chest, then the other.

“How does it feel?”

He says nothing, merely nods.

“It must feel fantastic,” I whisper. “You look fantastic, Severus.”

The barest of smiles on his lips.

 _I want to kiss every inch of you. Such as your spine right there in front of me_.

It’s time for the last hurdle. I take my hands off his and once more blend in the shadows.

“Take off your pants.” Miraculously, my voice didn’t waver at all.

But his fingers are shaking as they fumble, just for an instant, with the first button.

“Are you warm enough?”

Another nod, but I cast the warming spell again, and he sighs.

His black pants aren’t tight, but they’re as impeccably tailored as his coat and fit him exceptionally well. I’m sweating and it’s not due to the bloody spells or the bloody fire burning in the bloody fireplace.

He undoes the other two buttons, the white cotton beneath as enticing and forbidden as the white shirt now on the floor, then he promptly does it, he pushes his pants down and steps out of them, and he’s standing before the mirror in his immaculately white boxer shorts.

Almost there. We’re almost there.

When it’s time to get those boxers off, he won’t be able to do it fast enough. First things first, though. All I need to do is bring him close to the edge.

“Severus…” His name has never been more delicious. I want to repeat it over and over.

There must have been some heat in my voice, because he moistens his lips with his tongue in the briefest flash.

“Yes,” I say. “Go ahead, Severus. Go on. Indulge yourself.”

His eyelids close as his hand presses down on his lower abdomen, then inches farther down until it comes between his legs, his dexterous fingers gripping the cotton fabric there, and I can’t wait for the day when I fuck him senseless, but right now I want him to love his desire, to see himself as his own desire, as desire itself.

And that, of course, is when he breathes my name.

All I can do is tell him again, “Go on, Severus.”

His hand wraps around his manhood, which is starting to bulge beneath the white cotton, oh god… The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them. “Stroke that cock, you deserve it.”

He moans, opens his eyes.

“You’re so good… You’re so fucking hot.”

His eyes, usually so piercing, are a little unfocused as his control melts and sensation takes over.

“Ah… ah…” he cries, and he struggles with the boxers, and hell yes, he’s going to take them off before I even ask.

I say it anyway. “Take them off, Severus. Let’s see that gorgeous cock in the mirror.”

I can’t believe I just said that, but _fuck_ , Severus Snape is taking his clothes off in front of me, Neville Longbottom, so we’re well past the niceties. What has shyness ever gotten me anyway? I’m past that too. I killed Tom Riddle’s fucking snake.

And now Severus is naked, it’s unbelievable, his manhood half-erect but already making my mouth go dry. I tell him, “Hold out your hand,” and confusion flitters across his face for a second, then he realizes I filled his palm with lubricant—I was prepared, obviously—and he groans as he swiftly coats his lengthening member with the thick, shiny liquid that makes his cock look even more unbearably appetizing, nestled as it is in dark curls and crowning his impressive ballsack.

 _All in good time, Longbottom_.

Right now, it’s not about me losing it—it’s about him.

His long legs, long torso, long cock, his angular face and lean body, all of it right there before the Mirror of Desire, revealed, exposed, as is his passion, softly simmering, and I want it to boil over.

“Fuck yourself. Stroke that great big _cock_ , Half-Blood Prince.”

“Neville… Fucking hell… Oh…”

His legs are tensed, his feet apart, testicles displayed between his thighs, his hips rotating as he caresses himself from the base of his cock to the gleaming tip, and with those tight buttocks of his flexing within an inch of me, I can’t help myself and I let my hands touch them, cup them and he cries out again, pushing himself against me, swirling those devilish hips of his.

“Thrust, Severus, thrust your cock, let’s see how badly you want it. Look at it, how hard you are.”

He undulates his abdomen and hips, keeping his hand immobile as he jerks the rigid curve of his manhood back and forth and observes the self-indulgent spectacle in the mirror, his eyelids partly closed, his eyes hazy with lust, pleasure, and abandon.

Then I tell him, “Stop.”

He keeps thrusting; I don’t think he heard me, not that I’m surprised by this, so I repeat, “Severus, stop.”

I want him to feel as much pleasure as possible when he comes. Just a short delay.

He’s trembling with need, but he’s confused again and he does stops, shaking his head a fraction.

“Don’t worry, you’re wonderful, it’s excellent. I’d like you to hold the back of your head, all right?”

He slowly brings his arms up, laces his fingers on top of his black hair.

“Good… Now, thrust again. Show the mirror your beautiful, hungry cock… Look at yourself. You’re so damned amazing.”

He moves his hips, his manhood entirely visible and engorged, the tip like a ripe fruit. His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling in time with his languid motions. Fluid seeps from the head of his cock, and I have to bite down on my thumb below the first knuckle because of how much I want him.

But instead of freeing myself from the control spell and burying my own hungry cock between his smooth buttocks, I whisper, “Severus, next time we do this, I swear I’ll suck you til you burst in my mouth.”

He groans loudly, tightening his hold on the back of his skull, and gives a few short, urgent thrusts, then he rolls his hips again and again, his rigid manhood glinting in the candlelight.

It’s time.

“Lower your arms, Severus, and kneel down,” I say gently. I don’t want him to get too tired.

Panting, he does so, and with his knees resting upon crumpled his black robes, bucks his hips a few more times, his scrotum bouncing beneath a cock that couldn’t be harder or readier. 

“Neville, please, I can’t—”

I kneel behind him, my arm encircles his waist to steady him, and I put my free hand on his upper right thigh. 

He gasps, moans. He grips my forearm, sways his hips, raises his pelvis like a plea, an offering.

My heart is racing. It’s going to happen; I’m going to touch him. “Are you ready? Do you want me to…”

“Yes, yes. Do it…”

I stroke his thigh up and down, unsure whether I’m calming him or myself, and murmur, “I want you to look at yourself while I’m touching you.”

He nods, chewing on his lower lip.

This is it.

My hand glides up his inner thigh, coming to rest against his testicles, and the catch in his breath as I fondle them is so tantalizing I pause and slowly kiss his moist cheekbone. Then I whisper, “What is it that you want, Severus? Say it.”

“Make me come,” he says, his voice strained.

“Watch,” I tell him. “Watch yourself being pleasured.”

“Yes, anything you—”

“Say _you_ want it.”

“I want it, want…”

I coil my right hand around his cock, my hold loose for a moment, then tighter, and he whimpers, unable to keep his hips still, squirming languorously, his stomach tensed, his muscles defined, his body desperate for more stimulation, for release.

“Thrust in my hand, Severus.”

He does so, his slick cock moving up and down my palm and fingers. _Wand waving isn’t so foolish after all, is it, Professor Snape_.

“Do you like what you see?”

“Y-yes.”

“Show me how much you love it,” I tell him, my hand now pumping him, meeting each of his lascivious thrusts.

“I love it, fuck, oh fuck…”

His thin hips are snapping feverishly now, he’s on the verge of orgasm, his eyes riveted to what’s taking place in the mirror, his knees a bit wider as the pleasure nears its peak, then at last it happens. For a moment he screws his eyes shut and cries out, the creamy semen flowing from his manhood in abundant spurts, then he gazes in the mirror again, still driving his cock into my hand, emptying himself all over my fingers and his robes splayed on the floor, licking his lips, strands of hair matted against his reddened cheeks.

And then he collapses against me, half-kneeling, half-sitting, out of breath, his head resting on my shoulder, his eyes closed.

Seeing him like this, lying in my arms, serene, spent, is indescribable. Frankly, it’s helping me recover from my own suppressed lust, which is good because I’m hit by how much I love him, it submerges my insides and my heart is having a tough time beating, it’s overcome by a love so thick it feels like warm, wet sand, and now I want my Severus resting in bed.

I cast a few cleansing spells, taking care of Severus and his robes, and I summon the deep green nightgown folded on his bed in the adjoining room.

“Severus? Let’s get you ready for bed,” I tell him tenderly.

He stirs a little, shivers. I slip the nightgown over his head and promptly guide his sluggish limbs into the sleeves. I help him to his feet, the gown covering the rest of his body as he stands, then sweep him in my arms and carry him to his bedroom.

Even here, there are scrolls and notes everywhere, overturned books on the nightstand next to a coffee stained cup. Another set of black robes is draped over a chair. His life has been all about Hogwarts, protecting it, rebuilding it, overseeing everything about it.

Who’s been for him?

Starting tonight, a lot of things are going to change. I’ll see to it.

I lower Severus upon the mattress, cover him with blankets, then throw a few logs in the fireplace and light them, filling the room with warmth and a soft, golden glow.

“Neville.”

I hurry to the bed. Severus is lying on his side, his hair strewn over the pillow, his dark eyes peering up at me.

“You need to get some sleep now,” I tell him. “We’ll have breakfast tomorrow, all right?”

I stroke his cheek, and he takes hold of my hand.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

Like an idiot I ask, “Are you sure? It’s been an exhausting night, and—”

He sighs.

“Mr. Longbottom, I’m very tired. Yes, I’m sure. I… don’t wish to be alone.” He yawns; he's going to fall asleep any minute. “Stay. Unless you’d rather not…”

I bend down and kiss him. “You aren’t alone.”


End file.
